firecracker,” Clay said with a smile before jogging down the front porch steps. Today he wore a T-shirt. Thank God. The jeans fit him like a second skin, though. So now she had to contend with the butt thing.
Not only had she practically drooled over a shirtless Clay yesterday, but she’d actually rated the bag boy’s backside that morning at the grocery store. Thankfully Steve the bag boy was older than Clay, but she was now convinced her libido had written a memo titled “Take Care of Your Sexuality before You Mount the Bag Boy.” She wondered if something was wrong with her hormones. Or maybe she was ovulating. Something other than going middle-aged crazy.
Wait, was turning forty years old hitting middle age?
Nah. And technically she was still thirty-nine for the next two months.
She just needed a man her own age, a nice companion to take her to dinner, to watch TV with her, and to give her regular sex so she didn’t do anything crazy. Too damn bad there wasn’t a plethora of decent fortysomething-year-old men waiting for a fortysomething-year-old woman needing a booty call.
Clay walked her out to a sheet of plyboard sitting on two sawhorses, forming a makeshift desk. He had a clipboard, a few tools, and two white-and-gray Carrara marble samples. Picking up one, he traced the veins. “See? Lots of movement here. I think it will look good since you went with the gray cabinets. Now this one has less movement, but it will look good, too.”
“Which one would you choose?” she asked, noting how masculine his hands were. She fanned herself, wishing the blasted heat would go away. It’s October, Mother Nature. Get a damned clue.
“Well, I like a lot of movement in stone. Hides flaws and, I don’t know, seems to have more life. It invites you to touch it.” Clay stroked the white marble with the smoky swirls again. She wasn’t sure if it was the poetic words or the actual caressing of marble that beckoned her libido forth again.
She swayed toward him.
“Hey, you okay?” Clay said, looking at her with concern.
“Oh yeah. It’s just hot out here.” She lifted her brown, curly hair from her sweaty neck and told herself that was the truth. It had nothing to do with the way Clay—who was practically a child—was stroking the damned marble. Something had to be wrong with her. Maybe she needed to make an appointment with Dr. George.
“A cool front’s coming in tomorrow. Now tell me which one so you can get out of this heat.” He tapped the clipboard. “Gotta get this order in to stay on schedule.”
“The one you liked is fine,” she said.
“You sure? You aren’t being picky over this. Most women make me show ’em tons of samples.”
Daphne shrugged. “I’m picking this for the new owners. You like this one. I’m going with it. Easy enough.”
“You sure aren’t like your daughter. She gets her panties up her crack if a guy breathes wrong.” His words should have been an insult, but they held affection. Clay didn’t seem to understand that he’d hurt Ellery long ago. Some guys were just oblivious.
Ellery was strong, opinionated, and somewhat manipulative, but she was also warm, generous, and clever. From the beginning, holding Ellery was like holding a baby doll with blonde curls, big blue eyes, and a Cupid’s bow mouth. Ellery learned early on how to work things to her advantage. She wielded her dimples like a samurai, and she mastered the perfect combination of head tilt and pout that rendered most adults helpless. It didn’t hurt that her daughter was classically gorgeous—a combination that drew people close and allowed her to walk a smooth road to any destination. But having everyone wanting to bask in her glow had drawbacks—Ellery expected people to fall into line with her ideas and stubbornly refused to accept anything less than her vision. Clay Caldwell hadn’t bought into her vision, and Ellery still nursed the slight.
“I’ve learned to pick my battles,” Daphne said, reaching over and tapping the sample he held. “And this isn’t one of them.”
“You smell good,” Clay said, actually inhaling near her hair.
Daphne snapped back.
Ignore the hum of whatever is awakening.
“I showered,” she said with lightness in her voice.
Clay stacked the marble samples, his cheeks a bit redder than before. Like he knew he’d crossed a line. “Right. Shouldn’t take too long to get this in. The supplier usually has both of these at the ready.”
“Perfect,” Daphne said, stepping toward the farmhouse.